They were ripping past Candlestick Park. Sam’s brain was flying.
“Take the next exit,” Terry said. “There’s a Kaiser up on El Camino.”
Sam didn’t ask how he knew that. Didn’t question if he was right. He had to be. Even a quick look in the rearview mirror told her Candy was dying, drowning in her own blood. Sam took the off-ramp in a four-wheel drift. The Firebird shuddered then found grip. They blew through three red lights in a row. If the cops pulled them over they would all go to jail, but hearing Candy coughing and fighting for breath, Sam didn’t care.
“Shhhh, hold on baby,” Jacob whispered. “Please don’t die. I, fuck . . . Sam!”
“We’re almost there.” Several blocks away a hospital sign glowed in the fog. “Jake, listen very carefully. When we get there you need to get her inside and then split. If the cops catch you, nothing I can do.”
“I don’t care.”
“I got that, but she will and I do.”
“No.”
Candy was gasping, fighting for breath. Her pale skin was tinted blue. Jacob knew he was losing her. Sam steered them into the ambulance entrance of the hospital. A young doctor with a large Afro was sitting in a wheelchair smoking. Terry jumped from the passenger seat, folding down the seatback. Jacob climbed out, lifting Candy into his arms. She was as light as a butterfly’s wing. She was limp and not breathing. The doctor jumped up when he saw the blood-soaked couple, grabbed a gurney, and rushed to Jacob.
“Put her down here.”
“She can’t—she stopped breathing.”
“I got her.” The doctor moved away quickly, pushing Candy toward the electric doors. Jacob tried to follow but Sam grabbed him from behind, dragging him back.
“Let me go.”
“No. Get in the car.” Shoving her little brother into the backseat she gave him no choice. “Terry, get the fuck in here.” Terry numbly followed her orders.
As they rolled out onto the boulevard Jacob stared out the back window. Through the glass door he got one last glimpse of the gurney. Frantic doctors and nurses obscured his view of Candy.
CHAPTER 18
* * *
“There’s no escape. I’m God’s lonely man.” —Taxi Driver
The tidal marshland beyond Palo Alto had raised plank paths running through it. It smelled of brine and mud and decay and growth. Jacob stood looking out at the bay. Bare-chested, he’d taken his bloody shirt off, he couldn’t feel the cold.
Sam stood behind him. “We didn’t have a choice.”
“You didn’t have a choice. I made mine, but you wouldn’t let me stay with her.”
“If we’re in jail how the fuck am I going to make this right?”
“Make it right? Make it right? What in your mind does that look like? No, tell me. I can’t see this right no matter what fucked up angle I peer at it from.”
“Little brother, we have a couple of problems. One, the psychotic hillbilly sons of bitches who shot her need killing. Two, Breeze or Callum, or whoever the fuck set us up needs to pay their freight. Problem three? We have a trunkload of cash I’m pretty sure belongs to the mob. They find out it was us took it, we are all dead. All. Moms. All. Terry. All. Got that? We go to the cops, sooner or later they will put us at Taxi Dancer.”
Terry sat on the Firebird chain smoking Marlboro 100s. “It was my fault. I know how they knew where we would be heading.” He stared at the ground as if his salvation might be there, just beneath the dirt. “Some guy called last week, while we were waiting for Sam. I . . . well, just fuck me.”
“What did he say, Terry? It’s important.” Sam tilted Terry’s face up to meet her eyes. “Terry, what did he say?”
“He said they were friends from up North. Said you left a final paycheck behind and they needed to mail it to you.”
“You bought that?” Jacob yelled.
“I . . . fuck, Jake, fuck I . . .”
“Dial it back, little brother.”
Jacob shoved his sister out of the way. She had an inch and twenty pounds on him. She could kick his ass, but she didn’t. Jacob took Terry by surprise, swung hard letting his forward momentum fuel his fist. Terry’s head jerked back from the blow, but he didn’t so much as stumble. Jacob swung again and again. Terry stood like a redwood and just took it. If he wanted, Terry could squash Jacob. Jacob had never been in a fight. His idea of working out involved riding bikes high on ludes. Terry played football until the day he discovered dope and Jacob and trim. Jacob hit Terry on the back of his head. Pain flared in his hand. He roared. He kept hitting and Terry kept taking it. Snot and tears and blood were smeared across their faces. Terry had blood flowing from his broken nose. Jacob had Candy’s blood spread with Terry’s across his chest. He looked from the blood to his best friend’s eyes and knew he was done. Dropping his arms, he slid down the side of the Firebird. Terry slumped down in the dirt beside him. Back against the cold metal, Terry sparked a Marlboro. They didn’t apologize or make up. They had said all that needed to be said.
“It’s getting light.” Sam, running on survival mode. Do what’s next, fuck the past, fuck the future. It was fucking Zen. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo was a Buddhist chant a hippy stripper taught her. Supposed to make all things possible or some such crap. Why not. She let the words rattle on in her mind.
Terry passed Jacob a lit cigarette. Jacob inhaled the blue smoke and passed it back. The sun was coming up over the bay, light shimmering on the rolling water. “I’m afraid life will never feel normal again.”
“I’m more afraid it will. Jake, man, this, this is . . . fucked.”
They passed the cig between them in silence. A great blue heron took flight, gliding out over the bay. Somewhere in the distance a horn honked. Donna Summer sang “Love to Love You Baby” inside Jacob’s head.
• • •
At the Creekside Apartments, Jacob stood in the shower watching Candy’s blood washing away. Moms had been asleep when they snuck in. Small blessing. Jacob didn’t know how he would explain the blood and the loss of Candy. Moms still believed he was a non-drinking virgin who had the chess club over when she was gone. Actually, he had no idea what she thought of him. He told her so many lies he had become a shadow-son, a myth of a son. This moment, this one here, is the moment a hero looks at his dead lover’s blood, and Travis Bickle or Dirty Harry or the Man with No Name steps up, says he is done hiding, he is going to war. This was that moment. And Jacob saw clearly he would fail the test. Fuck Clint Eastwood. His hands were shaking. He wanted to grab the biggest bud he could find, take Terry up to Foothill Park and smoke this shit away.
From the living room came Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here”. Terry must have put it on. Floyd was his go-to band. Sam called it hippy crap. Jacob was glad for anything to comfort his friend. He came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Terry was sitting cross-legged in front of the speaker, eyes shut tight.
“Sam, they’ll be coming for us, won’t they?” Jacob asked.
“Yes, they will.” Sam checked the magazine in her M16.
“Then why aren’t we running?”
“Fuck running, I’m ready for them this time.”
“We need Valentina.”
“Already called her. Cavalry is on its fabulous way.”
At that moment Esther came out. “Can I make you all some eggs?” Her cheer-filled face dropped as she really saw the three of them. Saw Terry’s bruised and battered face. Saw Jacob’s scared face and swollen hand. Saw the assault rifle her daughter held. Esther’s face went from cheerful mom to something much harder, something that spoke of her past. “What happened?”
They looked at her. No one spoke.
“Tell me what happened, no lies.”
“Candy was shot . . . she may be dead.” Tears rolled down Jacob’s face.
“Sam? Give me the straight deal, no bullshit.”
So Sam did. She told her about stripping for Breeze. About Callum and the rip-off, the twenty grand she owed Bree
ze. The threats to their family. She told her about promising her father to go straight. She told it all in a flat, emotionless voice. Emotions were for once they were safe. Emotions would get them killed.
“This Cracker and . . . ?” Esther asked.
“Sardine.”
“How long before they show up at our door?”
“Could be minutes, hours, I don’t know.”
The phone started ringing. Jacob jumped.
“Don’t answer it,” Esther said. “Keep them guessing as to where we are.” She opened the duffle, took out the cut-down shotgun. “Terry, dear, I need you to take this and cover the back door.”
“Sure, Moms.” Terry walked back into the kitchen. Sitting on the floor he leaned his back against the stove and aimed at the glass section of the back door.
• • •
Jacob was holding his snub-nosed .38 in his lap.
“You know how to use that?” Esther asked.
“Yes.”
“Are there a lot of things you know I don’t know you know?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
• • •
Sam dumped the cash onto the coffee table and started counting out the stacks of bills.
“Whose money is it?” Esther asked. “Sam, rule one: before stepping on stage know whose money you’re taking.”
“Name is Maurizio Binasco.”
“Who is he?”
“He owns Taxi Dancer.”
“Mob?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know? Is this how your father taught you to set up a show?”
“No. No, it’s . . . fuck.” She let her voice trail off and finished counting the bills.
“How much is there?”
Sam let out a long breath. “Two hundred and forty thousand dollars. We figured, based on door and booze, max we would clear was thirty or forty grand.”
“You were set up,” Esther said. “If they just wanted the twenty large you owed, why not wait for it, meet you here? No reason to start shooting. Who tipped you to taking off the disco?”
“Breeze. Son of a bitch.”
“Their plan? Take the cash and kill you all. Leave not even a whisper to connect him to the heist.”
“I’m going to kill Breeze.”
“If it comes to that. But now you’re going to eat some eggs and toast. Jacob, get the coffee going. Samantha, keep an eye on that front door.”
• • •
Jacob watched his mother put breakfast together, stunned by her transformation from Polly Sunshine to General Patton. Both he and Terry watched her every move like she was an alien. “Boys, Grandpa Bloch, the thief, he was my father. I worked with him. Your father was a thief. I chose him, married him. We ran a crew. Wasn’t until you kids came along that I gave it up. Now some Humboldt pimp wants to hurt my family? No. That won’t happen.”
• • •
Eating an egg sandwich, Sam let a plan form. First things first—she needed to hide the cash. It was their only leverage. Replacing it into the duffle, she went outside, scanned in a wide circle. The sun was up. Maybe Sardine was smart enough to wait for dark to come after her. Popping the trunk on the Firebird, she unlocked the false bottom and hid the cash. To be sure no one stole the car, she flipped the kill switch and then, as an afterthought, detached the distributor cap and took it inside with her.
• • •
“What do you want me . . . ?” Jacob asked.
“Nothing. You, Moms and Terry need to go to a motel until this crap is shut up tight.” She tried to ruffle his hair but he stepped back out of her reach. “She was, is, my best friend, Jake. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Yeah, but it did. It did happen. I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are. You stay, you’ll get Valentina and me killed.”
“You set this up. You brought this to us. You got Candy shot.”
“All true. Now it’s on me to find our way home.”
“Fuck home. This changes nothing, Sam. Get yourself killed, or don’t, I don’t give a fuck. I love Candy. I’m not walking.”
“I’m in,” Terry said, eyes still on the back door.
“Thirty-six hours of labor to have you.” Esther gently pushed Sam’s hair up off her face. “That’s what it took. I’m not letting you go this easily. Nope. I’m not going anyplace.”
Sam looked from resolute face to resolute face. Immovable.
Her family.
Her blood.
Jacob and Terry were witnesses to the shooting, maybe a murder. No way would Sardine let them live.
She had to end it.
If she got this wrong they were all dead. Alive they could feel their feelings and whatever.
Not now.
CHAPTER 19
* * *
“You don’t make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets.” —Mean Streets
“Bitch, you do nothing by halves do you?” Valentina was in the kitchen. She had arrived in her Galaxie, which was waxed to a mirror as always. She was dressed for action in culottes, white tennis shoes and a low-cut argyle sweater that showed a healthy amount of her estrogen-enhanced breasts.
The boys were lying down in the bedroom. Sam had given them each a Quaalude. They needed to be awake for the night. At least that’s what she told them.
“Jacob?” Valentina asked.
“He hates me. He looks mind-fucked. Terry’s not much better.”
“That, princess, is normal. That is how normal people react to seeing a friend get shot.”
“You think I’m broken?”
“Do I look like a shrink? Baby, we are all broken one way or another. Like the man says, ‘Life ain’t nothin’ but a funny, funny riddle.’”
“John Denver?”
“I dated a cowboy for about a minute.”
• • •
After Sam told Valentina where the cash was hidden she said the hillbillies would recognize the Firebird, best to hide it in the trunk of the Ford Galaxie. Made sense.
In the carport, Sam opened the hidden compartment.
It was empty.
She blinked. Closed trap door. Took a deep breath and opened it again.
Still empty.
No duffle bag full of cash.
No hope in hell.
Sam’s gut felt like she was in a freefalling elevator.
Fucked. They were totally fucked.
“Jinks? Did you tell him about the hidey-hole?”
“No, while boning on a table the subject didn’t come up. Just our crew knew.”
Valentina flicked her eyes around them, searching. “Those inbred hillbilly cousin fuckers?”
“Maybe. If it was, they may be flying up the coast. Or . . .” Sam said turning slowly around, scanning for danger.
“Or they have sights on our bodacious ta-tas.”
“I’m kinda fond of my ta-tas.”
“They are dazzling, princess.”
“What’s the play?”
“We do nothing. If they’re looking to do us harm, I’d rather meet them on our ground.” Valentina slipped fluidly between disco queen and hardcore soldier.
Jacob stepped out of the shadows. “Whole lot of ifs and maybes floating around.”
“I don’t have a script for this part of the show, Jacob.”
“Those fuckwads had a small window of opportunity between when we got home and when Valentina showed. I think they headed for Humboldt.”
“You think, little brother? For all we know they could be heading south, going to fuck rich Malibu beach bunnies. Maybe west to play in the Half Moon Bay tide pools. Or, and this is real likely, they showed, grabbed the cash and were heading in to kill us when Valentina rolled up. Right now they could be lying low, watching.”
“They went north, trust me. If Breeze controls the inside man, I assume he also controls a clear line to Maurizio,” Jacob said.
“You assume—”
“Fuck off. Breeze can feed us to the Italians. But he’ll want the cash in his hand before selling us out. We have however long it takes them to get the cash to Breeze.”
“You done, little brother?”
“For now.”
“He just laid out a very solid scenario,” Valentina said.
“If you’re right, what’s our countermove?”
“Get in the goddamn car and chase down the sons of bitches.”
“One problem.”
“What’s that?”
“What if Sardine and Cracker didn’t blow town?”
Esther got their attention by clearing her throat. She held the twelve-gauge nestled in her arms. “They come here and we will send them crying to their mommies or to a shallow grave.”
Valentina looked at the plump, little mother with a big gun. Jacob was a skinny high school kid, more heart than ability. “I’m staying, princess. You take Jake.”
Sam wanted to argue, gain back her eroding power, but she couldn’t see her way around the logic of it. “Come on, Jake, let’s saddle up.”
• • •
A couple black beauties, a couple roadies of rum and coke and they hit the 101 heading north. Jacob shoved Aladdin Sane into the 8-track. Solid driving music, and Bowie, so he knew Sam wouldn’t complain. Bowie, Mot the Hoople, T-Rex, Iggy, The New York Dolls—as long as it glittered she would love it. Stray into Pink Floyd or Rundgren and she might toss the tape out the window. When “Panic in Detroit” came on, Sam sang along, beating out the rhythm on the steering wheel. “He looked a lot like Che Guevara, drove a diesel van. Kept his gun in quiet seclusion, such a humble man.”
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